


please illustrate your washing methods

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clothing, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Laundry, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“For this time only, you get a free demonstration. What’s the problem?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“She gave me three different types of damned bleach,” Jaime sighs. Brienne looks at them and at the ruined laundry – it’s not too bad of a mess after all, so she picks a medium-strength one. Then she heads for the detergents rack, grabs the right kind of soap and a box of fabric softener.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Here,” she says when she comes back. “Soap for whites, medium strength bleach, and put also some of this. If it fails and you have to put that stuff on just when you’re at home at least it should be comfortable to wear. And put it on sixty degrees, it’s plenty enough. For the dark stuff, there’s a specific cycle. For colors, not higher than forty. And never use bleach if there are no white clothes. Clear?”</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Clear. If that PhD doesn’t work out for you, you have a future in explaining laundry to other people.”</i></p><p> </p><p>Or: in which they go to the same laundrette while living in the same campus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	please illustrate your washing methods

**Author's Note:**

> I'M IN THE NICK OF TIME but I really wanted to do something for Jaime/Brienne week. Which clearly was the week of the month where everything piled up and I couldn't manage to do a fic each day, so have a fic with all seven themes at once (not in the right order but shhh), with many thanks to jaimebrienneonline on tumblr who when I was asking for prompts that could related to the colors in the theme list gave me _Laundromat fic. Jaime/Brienne at the laundromat, using the different colors as clothing for each one._ I also got another couple which I didn't manage to fill but I might this last week and retro-tag them or something. Anyway, at least I did manage this one. :D
> 
> Obviously nothing belongs to me and the title is a quote from _my beautiful laundrette_ which is about the only movie I can currently remember that I ever saw where the laundromat was an actual important plot point and it probably shows that my imagination re titles is worse than usual this time.

I. [Red.]

So, when Brienne had walked into the launderette bringing with a basin filled with her black and otherwise dark-colored clothes and had noticed Jaime Lannister already sitting in front of one of the washing machines, reading a textbook, she had just ignored him.

Last semester, she’d have braced herself for a fairly long round of arguing – they had three classes together, the disgraces of being Medieval history majors even if they’re specializing in two different fields, and he spent two of them trying to rile her up at every damned chance. Probably because they were the only two people who actually spoke up during classes, and they never agreed about most of the topics at hand. That was until they ended up paired together for some dumb group project in the Byzantine art class that Brienne had to take but would have rather avoided – she’s specializing in Middle Ages history in central Europe, not in Byzantine civilization, and she could have entirely done without it. And – after a week spent in the library with him, she had to admit that he might have been a rich, spoiled and vain jerk, but he was passionate about his subject and he wasn’t there to waste his time. Which had ended with their work getting a fairly high mark, Brienne feeling relieved that she could forget all about the depiction of the Virgin Mary in between angels in Byzantine iconography, and – well, they don’t really argue that much anymore and in the only class they’ve had together this semester all their discussion has been more… well, familiar bantering. Surely they lost all the vitriol.

Still, she hadn’t realized that he had actually moved into the campus and didn’t live with his family any longer until a few days ago. Obviously he’d go wash his clothes at some point, but whatever, not her business. She had a long day and on top of it that jerk Connington sitting next to her in Medieval philosophy spent two hours trying to convince her to have a drink when she knows he’s doing it because of some dumb bet with his buddies from the last row of seats. She overheard them once when she arrived to class earlier than usual and stopped right behind the door while they were discussing it, and she has a paper to finish later that’s due two days from now. She’s entirely not up for a battle of wits with Jaime Lannister right now.

Brienne quickly puts her clothes in her chosen washing machine after paying, loads it with the appropriate detergent and fabric softener, starts the dark clothes cycle and sits back, grabbing her notes from today – she might as well get some studying done.

Her plan goes off without a hitch for the next twenty minutes.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she hears coming from her left side, and –

Lannister is the only other person in the shop, and he definitely sounded frustrated at least, even if miserable is maybe a more appropriate choice, on second thought.

Brienne puts away her notes and glances at her left. He’s holding up a shirt, a couple of socks and some underwear that once were probably white and now are pink, and there’s a red shirt thrown over the top of the washing machine – oh. Of course. He mixed colors and whites.

And he’s looking at the mess with such a dejected face that even if Brienne didn’t want to get involved – well, there’s a reason why her father always used to tell her that being nice to people who don’t deserve that would have been her cross to bear at some point.

“Let me guess,” she says, moving closer, “no one informed you that if you mix whites and colors _that_ kind of thing happens?”

Lannister turns abruptly towards her and huffs, and yes, he does look fairly dejected. “And good evening to you, wench. Are you here to gloat about this? Because if you are – sorry but it’s really not a good day for it.”

“I don’t gloat about other people’s problems, Lannister,” she sighs, choosing to ignore that he’s calling her the way he used to in the very beginning when they’d insult each other in very creative ways during class discussions (sadly none of hers have stuck, but his favorite old-fashioned insult _has_ ), and then she notices that there are bandages around his right hand. Tight bandages. It doesn’t look as if it’s broken, but he’s holding it weird, and he’s mostly using the left to rummage through his ruined laundry.

She breathes in, moves next to him and grabs what used to be a white t-shirt. It’s definitely a not flattering shade of pink now.

Thing is, if she knows enough about his family, he probably hasn’t ever needed to use a washing machine in his life.

“Someone else would advise you to read the instructions next time, they’re over there,” she says, nodding towards the woman manning the check-out, “but since it doesn’t look like this is a _good day_ for anything as far as you’re concerned – first thing, you never put dark colors and whites together, or colors and whites in the first place. Unless you use one of those dye-trapping sheets, but you have to buy that stuff, they don’t have them here. I don’t know how much you can salvage of this batch, but if you wash the white stuff again with enough bleach and the proper cycle, maybe the dye could go away at least some. You can wash the red stuff along with dark clothes, just buy the dye-trapping sheets, put one in and use the dark colors cycle. They should have bleach, just ask them. And do it now, there’s a better chance it hasn’t set in yet.”

For a moment, he looks at her as if he’s completely surprised she wasn’t there to gloat about his obvious lack of skill with washing machines after all, and for a moment she expects one of his usual sardonic answers, but then –

“Thanks,” he says, shrugging. “I figured it’d be more straightforward.”

“It’s not that complicated. But again, maybe next time read the instructions. By the way, which soap did you use?”

He stares at her. “Er, the first one I saw? Aren’t they all the same?”

Brienne shakes her head, trying to just stick to being helpful. “No. There’s one for whites, one for dark clothes, one for colors. Unless you’re doing a cycle with both colored and dark, just look at what you’re using. And if I were you, I’d go get the bleach.”

“… Right. Well, er, thank you. I guess the first time is always bound to go wrong.”

She doesn’t comment about the whole _first time_ deal and goes back to her own washing machine, checking if it’s any closer to finishing. Sadly even with the quick cycle she chose she still will be here for the next half hour, if she also has to get everything dry.

She glances at her right, and – Jaime is still there, staring at the different detergents that the owner dumped on him, probably, still looking completely lost.

Brienne shakes her head and moves over there again. “For this time only, you get a free demonstration. What’s the problem?”

“She gave me three different types of damned bleach,” Jaime sighs. Brienne looks at them and at the ruined laundry – it’s not too bad of a mess after all, so she picks a medium-strength one. Then she heads for the detergents rack, grabs the right kind of soap and a box of fabric softener.

“Here,” she says when she comes back. “Soap for whites, medium strength bleach, and put also some of this. If it fails and you have to put that stuff on just when you’re at home at least it should be comfortable to wear. And put it on sixty degrees, it’s plenty enough. For the dark stuff, there’s a specific cycle. For colors, not higher than forty. And never use bleach if there are no white clothes. Clear?”

“Clear. If that PhD doesn’t work out for you, you have a future in explaining laundry to other people.”

“ _Hilarious_. Well, good luck. After five or ten cycles it becomes easy,” she says, and goes back to her spot. He starts putting his clothes back in, mostly with his left hand, she notices, and finally her washing cycle is over. Good. She can just put her things in the dryer and leave already.

She does, glancing back on her way out – he’s sitting in front of the washing machine, looking at the laundry inside it as if he’d like to murder it if only you could murder laundry, and he also looks somehow lonely. Which is weird, because up until a few months ago he had a pretty healthy social life as far as she noticed – his phone definitely ringed often while they were working together, even if he never answered it unless they were on a break. For a moment she thinks she should maybe go back in, but – they aren’t close enough, and she has a paper to write, and even if she’s on more friendly terms with him than with most people she knows on campus, it’s still not what’s going to go over there.

She doesn’t look back at him and returns to her room instead.

 

II. [Gold.]

 

The Friday after that day, she’s revising her notes about Anselm of Canterbury’s ontological argument while her mostly white underwear is being washed. It wasn’t a really smart decision – it’s not the kind of thing you want to revise when in a fairly noisy room. 

That is, until someone clears her throat next to her.

She turns on her right and – that’s Jaime Lannister. Again.

“Can I help you?” She says after a few moments of long silence.

“… Probably,” he says. “By the way, that bleach did work out. Mostly. A couple of things can’t be recovered ever, but I could have done a lot worse.”

“Good to know. So?”

He shakes his head and reaches for a bag he had put on the ground, taking a jacket out of it.

“What is _that_ ,” she says, staring at it. It’s – the only word she has for it is _horrible_. It’s all gold satin, and it’s the tackiest punch in the eyes she’s ever seen in her life. Or something close to it.

“Something I wish I didn’t have to put on tomorrow,” he sighs. “But – it’s – my father’s birthday. We’re already on bad terms right now and I have to show up. And that’s – er. Family tradition. Everyone needs to show up wearing something – yeah. _Gold._ I know. I know, don’t say anything. But I haven’t worn it in years and I haven’t washed it since then, so – just, does this count as _colors_ or fucking what? Because certainly it’s not white. Or good for the _dark cycle_.”

“Well, _no_. I mean, it’s neither. Uhm, is that silk?”

“Yes. Why?”

Brienne reaches out and touches it – yes. Silk indeed.

“I guess you could wash it with the delicate cycle. Put the priciest detergent you can find. It shouldn’t ruin it.”

“If it does it won’t be a great loss,” he huffs.

“But why should you all dress in gold?”

“Because when my great-grandfather found a gold mine and became rich he wanted to make sure everyone would know and he was enough of a son of a bitch to turn it into a _family tradition_. At least for the birthday of whoever’s in charge of the gold mines. Believe me, I’m the first one hoping that it gets ruined beyond recognition.”

Then he stands up and goes to get the detergent.

Brienne lets him start the cycle and looks down at her book again, but – suddenly she feels sick of it, she’s been rereading it for an entire week after all, and it’s going to be another half hour before her laundry’s done. Never mind that now that she thinks about it, she can’t even go back upstairs – Margaery Tyrell isn’t too bad of a roommate, but when she brings up some guy it’s better to just not show up at least until after dinner time.

She closes the book and thinks, _should I just go over there_ , but what should she even say if she does?

That’s when Ronnet Connington walks into the shop, too. As if she needed that.

She ignores him and stuffs the book into her backpack.

“Tarth!” He calls out. Of course he noticed her.

She sighs and turns to look at him. “Yes?”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You said you’d give me an answer before the week-end, didn’t you?”

“You’re forgetting the part where I told you no _the next day_ ,” Brienne sighs. “No, I’m not going for drinks with you. You’re going to have to pay up to Hyle Hunt, I’m afraid.”

The man goes as red as his hair for one blessed moment, which makes Brienne smirk ever so slightly – maybe now he’s going to leave it.

“How –”

“You weren’t half as subtle as you thought you were. Now, can you leave me to my laundry or do I need to tell you no all over again?”

“Well,” he keeps on, “are you sure you really couldn’t? Just for show?”

_Really?_

“Forget it,” she cuts him.

For a moment nothing happens, and then –

“You know what, Tarth, fuck you. I mean, sure, do your thing, it’s not like you’re ever going to find someone who’ll take you out for show or not,” he sneers, and Brienne thinks she manages not to flinch at that, mostly because it’d hardly be the first time someone tells her that. She’s about to tell him she’d rather die alone for that matter, but then –

“Connington, it’s not like the entire department doesn’t know that you’re an asshole, so this isn’t any news whatsoever, but with that attitude I doubt _you_ ’ll ever find anyone that’ll go with drinks with you just for show.”

They both turn to Brienne’s right, where Jaime is standing with his arms crossed and looking at Connington with such contempt that Brienne doesn’t know how the man hasn’t hightailed out of there already.

“However,” Jaime keeps on, “if you want tips on how you can get laid without any bets being involved in the process –”

He never finishes that sentence – Connington turns his back on the both of them and leaves the shop at once.

For a moment, they only hear the sound of the washing machines.

“Thanks,” Brienne says then. “I mean, it’s not like he’s anything new, but –”

“Wench, I owed you for the lessons on the proper use of bleach, didn’t I?”

And then he winks at her and goes back to his seat.

Brienne’s throat goes dry at once and she doesn’t press it further – she just sits back down and stares at her laundry until the cycle is done. She puts everything in the dryer and folds it, and as she leaves, she sees that Jaime’s cycle is done. He takes out the jacket, and – well, damn it. Looks like it came out good, or at least it’s not ruined.

“Too bad, huh?” She says, one foot already out of the door.

“Fuck, yes,” he agrees, sounding resigned, and when he waves at her as she leaves, she waves back as she thinks, _what the hell am I even doing here_.

 

III. [Silver.]

 

It’s Monday and Brienne is being reminded of her father’s warnings about being too nice to others in all the best ways. She doesn’t know how Margaery managed to convince her to bring down also _her_ laundry because _she really didn’t have time for that this week and of course she owed Brienne a favor now_ , but it somehow happened and now she’s having to do a whole separate load for Margaery’s _delicate_ clothes. Which include this silver gown that she says she intends to wear to her department’s upcoming Halloween party – Brienne has no clue what costume it could belong to, but it’s very fine silk, with laced hems, and it came with an impressive amount of fine lingerie, and seriously, this is going to take at least one hour and a half of her time. Which she’d have rather spent doing anything else – not that she isn’t over the phase where she felt painfully jealous of her classmates in elementary school because they could pull off princess outfits for Halloween or their birthday parties while everyone would laugh at her if she only tried to wear a skirt, because she _is_ , but after that episode with Connington last week…

As if she’s ever going to pull off fine lingerie or gowns. She sighs and chooses the most delicate soap out of the rack before heading back for the washing machine.

Then the bell of the shop rings and here walks Jaime Lannister again with a basin full of red clothes only.

He dumps it on the top of one of the machines and looks at the contents of her basin.

“Did Tyrell con you into washing her stuff?” He asks a moment later.

“Wait, how –”

“It looks like her style. And that dress would look a bit small on your shoulders, wouldn’t it?”

She lets out a laugh she hadn’t known she had in her. “Well, that’s – right. I don’t know how she convinced me, actually.”

“Yeah, she has a way about her.”

“Wait, do you know each other?”

Jaime shrugs. “Her father used to do business with mine and the family was around fairly often, wench. I don’t even think she does that on purpose, but next time I’d tell her to wash her own damn things.”

She laughs again, loading the machine. “Maybe I will,” she agrees. “And how did that party go?”

For a moment, he looks surprised she’s asked.

“If I think about it, I want to get drunk right now, so I’m not thinking about it,” he answers, shrugging. “But it could have been worse. I’m never wearing that thing again, though.”

“So you do have some fashion sense underneath all those red shirts.”

He snorts as he dumps his clothes into the machine. “Red is a perfectly acceptable color. I guess it wouldn’t look _that_ good on you, wench, blue looks more like it, but it doesn’t make it any less classy.”

And thing is – from any other person she’d have expected it to be mocking, but it sounds as if he’s saying it in good fun. Maybe she should just take that bait.

“Well, as long as you remember to wash everything properly, or you’ll end up with a pink wardrobe,” she retorts, and he laughs again, and why is she thinking that she really likes how he sounds when he laughs?

Hasn’t she learned her lesson time and time again? She can’t really be thinking that –

“Pink is _definitely_ not your color,” he huffs a moment later, “but don’t you fret, _I_ could pull that off any time.”

His green eyes are sparkling in amusement and Brienne knows she’s blushing as she starts the delicate cycle.

She doesn’t know how they end up quizzing each other on their respective textbooks while they wait for their clothes to be ready, but it happens, and somehow it feels less like a chore than it does when she revises on her own, and for a moment she entertains the notion that maybe being _friends_ with him wouldn’t be so bad.

 

IV. [White.]

 

She should not have gone shopping with Margaery to _celebrate that midterm finals are over_.

If she hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have listened to Margaery when she told her that she had to get that white dress, which totally looked great on her and showed off her legs and a lot of other things that Brienne hadn’t exactly been convinced about. Never mind that she doesn’t know what’s the point in _showing off her legs_ – playing hockey throughout all of high school made them all muscles and she doesn’t think there’s much to look at, but – she ended up buying it. And she did wear it, because it felt comfortable at least, and of course she had it on while cooking dinner before, which means that when she accidentally cut her finger while chopping zucchini, it ended with a bloodstain all over the front.

Which is why she’s in the launderette at midnight trying to clean it out, except that the only way she knows to go about it is to use cold water, soap and scrub a lot, and it’s not quite working out. It didn’t in her small bathroom and it doesn’t in the bigger sinks in here. It’s too dry, probably – maybe it only works for fresh stains, now that she thinks on it.

Obviously, the owner isn’t here – from ten PM to six in the morning the person manning the cash register is her nephew, who only knows how to handle that and not the washing machines.

Of course. First time in years she buys news clothes that don’t come from the men’s section and it’s ruined.

“Seems to me like this is my chance to even my debts? For that time you gave me advice on what kind of bleach was more appropriate.”

 _What the hell is Jaime doing here at this hour_?

He’s standing next to her, looking sort of amused but also – like someone who hasn’t slept enough in the last two weeks.

“Wait, you know how to get dried blood out of clothes?”

“I might,” he answers, “even if you might find it somehow inappropriate.”

Brienne shrugs and hands the dress over. “Be my guest. If it doesn’t work it’s not like I can wear that again. By the way, how many all-nighters did you pull for the midterm finals?”

He shakes his head. “None, actually. I don’t do binge revising. However, I might have pulled them for other reasons. But whatever, let’s see if it works.”

Then – then he spits in his hand and proceeds to smear it all over the stain.

Brienne is about to ask him what the fuck he’s thinking, but then – then it actually starts to fade away.

“What –”

He laughs and spits in his palm again, repeating the operation. “Works like a charm every time. Another couple times and you can just wash it. With _bleach_ , maybe.”

Brienne can’t help that – she doesn’t fight the grin that spreads across her lips. “Yeah, all right. Well, then you’re not completely useless at this.”

“Hey, I didn’t fuck up any other laundry since that day. I learn fast. And for that matter –” He starts it, but then he doesn’t finish that sentence. He had started sounding fairly chipper, but then it kind of died down.

“For that matter? I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she adds quickly, but then he spits in his left hand again and keeps on working on that stain – it’s light pink now.

“No, it’s fine.” He shrugs a bit. “Uhm, my brother, let’s say that when he was growing up – his clothes tended to need that treatment a lot.”

“What, he was prone to tripping?”

“Most times,” Jaime replies with a nod. “And – well. Long story short, maids couldn’t be around all the time so I just asked one of them a quick way to go about it. Before you ask, my mother died when he was born and neither my father or sister were interested in worrying about blood stains on his clothes.”

“I’m – I’m sorry,” she says.

“No need. It’s been a long time.” He sounds like he just wants to drop this conversation, which she can understand, but still – she didn’t say it just for show.

“Well, mine died when I was four, so – I get it.”

“… Shit, I didn’t need to shoot you down like that, did I?”

“Come on, it doesn’t look like you’re dying to talk about this. It’s fine. If only everyone was rude the way _you_ are,” she sighs.

“I think I need you to explain that,” he says after a few long seconds, and does he sound intrigued now?

Brienne figures she should just say it. “It’s just – I’d rather have someone being an ass to me because they’re being sincere about whatever it is they’re thinking than Ronnet Connington or his group of friends. Just to say one.”

At that, he smirks openly, and she knew she shouldn’t have said it. “Oh, so that means you _like_ it when I’m rude?”

“Forget that. Appreciating that you don’t lead others around doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, but now he sounds… fairly more in a good mood than he was before? Well then. She’s not going to complain. He spits on his palm one last time and then hands her back the dress – there’s a faint pink stain now, but it’s nothing that won’t go away with some more bleach and cold water.

“There you go. Guess we’re even now?”

“We might be,” she agrees, taking the dress back.

Then she decides that she might as well go for it.

“Listen, it doesn’t look like you’re having a great day. And I was planning to spend the night with a few mindless horror movies to marathon. Do you want to come up when I’m done with washing this? I mean, Margaery’s gone back home for the midterm pause, so there’s no one up there.”

Never mind that he has no clothes with him, so he obviously was just up and about and walked into the shop when he saw her standing there.

And then –

“You know what, wench, that sounds like a plan. Sure. I’ll come up with you. Should I drop by my room and get some alcohol?”

“Maybe you should,” she answers.

Suddenly, sharing alcohol with him for the next few hours doesn’t seem like such a daunting prospect – all the contrary, for that matter.

 

V. [Black.]

 

They don’t meet again while bringing down laundry until the beginning of January, but they do meet in between – sometimes he comes up to her room for tasteless horror movies marathons when Margaery isn’t in, sometimes she goes to his except that they watch dumb action movies instead. Sometimes they end up helping each other revise even if their classes have nothing in common. And – it’s fairly nice, really, and Brienne can almost tell herself that no, they’re just friends, and it’s plenty enough, and then he’ll tell her that he can’t believe she thinks that the first _Die Hard_ is better than the second _Mad Max_ , what’s such heresy, and her stomach clenches, and she ignores it steadily.

Really. It’s good enough like this. It _is_.

Two days before lessons start again, she’s washing her sweaters when he walks in with a basin that looks empty.

When he stops and places it on the washing machine, she sees that there’s a suit instead. A very black suit, very formal – shirt, trousers and jacket are all the same shade. It’s also very crumpled, and it smells of wine. Now that Brienne notices, it has some darker spots all over the jacket and shirt.

“There’s a special delicate soap for wine stains somewhere,” Brienne says, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I might try it, but it’s been there since New Year’s. I have a feeling I can just throw it away.”

“I guess it was a huge party?”

He laughs, even if it sounds tired rather than genuine. “You could say that.”

“More family traditions you don’t care for?”

“You could definitely say that,” he agrees. “Then again, I think I’m done,” he says, his tone suddenly dropping low enough that she can barely hear him.

“Wait, with family traditions?”

“With most of the family, I think,” he says, shrugging ever so slightly, and then he pretty much shoves the suit into the washing machine before stalking off to find the right soap. He comes back and starts loading the machine while Brienne silently adds the softener to her load.

“Isn’t this the part where you ask me what I just implied?” He asks her a moment later.

“I’m not – if you want to tell me, okay. If you don’t – I don’t like to force people to share if they don’t feel like it.”

She chooses the wool cycle and starts the machine.

Jaime stares down at his before shrugging, choosing the dark clothes cycle and doing the same.

“Let’s say that no one is really supportive of my life choices where I come from,” he finally says. “Which is why I moved here. When you so helpfully told me about the secrets of not mixing colors and whites.”

“I – I kind of got that far.”

He laughs again. “I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t. Anyway, that also was when – I guess you noticed I don’t use the right hand much these days.”

“I did, but it seemed rude to ask?”

“Tendon laceration. It was in a car accident, which happened right after a discussion with my father, which wasn’t exactly civil. And it’s a topic we just don’t discuss these days. So, it wasn’t a great time overall, and they’ve been pressing for me to drop everything and go into the family business since then.”

“Except that you care more about Byzantine art of the middle period than mining?”

“Nothing to add. But you might have noticed I can be stubborn about things I want.”

“Just a bit,” she agrees.

“Yeah, well, I kind of couldn’t skip the New Year’s Eve party. That wine was in my sister’s glass.”

“ _What_?”

He shrugs. “She was very drunk and she just recently realized that marrying in order to join the family business with another thriving mining business was a bad idea, since her husband is a first grade asshole. So now apparently since _she_ made sacrifices for the family business I should do the same, and I happen to fucking disagree with that.”

Brienne doesn’t know if he should feel outraged or worried at the fairly flippant way he’s discussing the issue.

“Anyway, I’m not going back for a while. They’re going to have to deal with it. I’m sorry about the damned suit though, I liked it.”

“It definitely was more in good taste than the golden jacket.”

“Clearly that one is pristine right now,” he snorts in agreement. “What a waste. And what did you do instead?”

“I watched a few western movies with my dad,” she answers truthfully. “Parties aren’t my scene.”

“I’d have rather watched western movies, if you want my very humble opinion.”

“How is _humble_ a word that actually agrees with you in any circumstance?”

“Touché,” he admits, but he doesn’t sound too unhappy about it.

“Margaery isn’t here until the day after tomorrow,” Brienne says then. “If you want to watch western movies _now_ , you can come upstairs.”

She doesn’t know how to describe the way he looks at her for the next split second before he grins again, the smug kind of grin he used to sport every damned day at the beginning of the semester.

“You know what, I just might. By the way, I don’t give a damn if Margaery is in or not.”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re here half of the time when she brings people upstairs, I think she can pay you the same favor if you want to do the same.”

Then he winks at her and goes back to staring at his laundry, all over again, and Brienne chooses to ignore how her stomach had clenched all over again at that.

She also chooses to ignore it two hours later, when her sweaters have been folded and put away in a wardrobe, his suit has been left in the ruined clothes basket the shopkeeper keeps in a corner of the launderette and he falls asleep with his head on her shoulder while they watch _For a Fistful of Dollars._ Fine, maybe as she puts an arm around his shoulder she indulges a moment in thinking, _what if this wasn’t a one time deal,_ and then she shakes her head and pointedly focuses on Clint Eastwood shooting people. It’s most probably a less masochistic way of going about it.

 

VI. [Green.]

 

One month, a few movie marathons, a lot of revising and a lot of innuendos from Margaery later (at some point Brienne did put her foot down and said she needed the room to revise with Jaime, at which Margaery had whistled and asked, _so now it’s called revising_ , and laughed, and then she said that of course she was going to _leave them alone_ ), she’s washing most of the pairs of jeans she owns – she did spend a few weeks cramming because the workload is insane this semester, and of course she barely had time to go down to wash underwear, never mind anything that needed a special cycle.

Jaime is there already, pulling out his own laundry, and at the top of the basket that he’s bringing to the dryer there’s a silk green shirt that she can’t help thinking would look amazing on him. Not that she tells him that.

“Oh, have you woken up from your dogmatic slumber?” He asks when he sees her coming in. Right. They haven’t seen each other in an entire week, but she had two tests back to back while he only has two classes this semester instead of the five she somehow has to juggle – she’s spending maybe too much time telling herself that it means less classes overall next year so she might as well endure it, but it’s about the only comforting thought about it.

“Has history of philosophy fried what’s left of your brain?” She retorts, choosing the jeans cycle.

“Then _I_ am the rude person out of the two of us,” he says, but he doesn’t sound offended at all. “It definitely fried what’s left of Connington’s, though.”

“What? He’s in that class, too?”

“Yeah, sadly for each of us. He should just be glad Stark teaches it or anyone else would have told him to leave his place to someone who actually has some interest in the fucking subject. I gather you survived your classes?”

“Barely.”

“Do you want to celebrate?”

“What?”

“Why not? We should have a drink or ten. You look like someone who could use it.”

“Jaime, the semester’s barely started. Celebrating? Really?”

“It’s the week-end,” he says. “I doubt you have class on a Saturday morning.”

 _Isn’t that just logical_ , Brienne thinks, and then she decides that maybe it’s time she actually goes for it. It does sound tempting, after all.

“Fine. I’ll meet you in an hour and a half after I’m done here?”

“I’ll drop by your room. And if you don’t drink more than half a pint of beer I’ll be personally disappointed, understood?”

“You wish!” She shouts after him as he leaves. She smiles a tiny bit, she really seems to be unable to help it, and then –

“Er, hello. Can I disturb you a moment?”

She turns to her left, finding herself face to face with a freshman she’s seen around the launderette fairly often – actually, now that she thinks about it, she’s fairly sure he’s Ned Stark’s son. She’s heard people gossiping about him being in the same university his father teaches at, not that it ever led to anything more than that since she’s also fairly sure he’s _not_ in the campus for anything related to his father’s department. Considering that he has an architecture textbook under his arm, there’s definitely no conflict of interest going on here. They don’t even look like each other much – Stark is all grey eyes, dark hair and solemn face, the son is all blue eyes, red hair and light freckles under his beard.

“Of course. Can I do something for you?”

The guy sort of blushes almost as red as his hair, but then he looks up at her, and for some reason he doesn’t seem particularly daunted by their height difference. Which is a novelty.

“Not really, but – okay, listen, this might sound fairly creepy, so just feel free to tell me to fuck off, but – you kind of always come at the same times I do, and _he_ – I mean, your charming friend who just left, I run into him fairly often too. And – shit, this is really embarrassing, but – you both look at each other the same way my boyfriend used to look at me when he was sure I was straight.”

 _What_?

“Sorry?”

“I’m just telling you because it took me ages to catch up to it and it was six months of agony, really, and – yeah, okay, I know it might sound out of line, but since I figured _he_ would have just told me to fuck off, I figured I should just tell you instead.”

“Are you telling me that –”

“I’m telling you that he’s not going out for drinks with you just out of friendship, same as you aren’t, and you haven’t denied it yet.”

… Damn. The guy is right. Brienne clears her throat, trying to find some way to get out of this, but then the guy hoists his bucket under his hip.

“And with this I really have to go, lest my boyfriend kills me for being too late again, but really, just consider that. Because there’s really no reason for people to be miserable about this kind of stuff when they could not be, right? Have a good evening,” he says, and then dashes out of the shop without even glancing back.

Brienne would really like to assume it was a practical joke, but who’d even go up to a perfect stranger to say that? Never mind that he can’t be on to any practical joke in the first place since she only ever saw him in here, not in class.

And truth to be told he looks like a fairly nice person, not the kind who’d just drop that bomb on you _especially_ if he doesn’t know you.

Later, Jaime shows up wearing the green shirt he had washed previously – he didn’t iron it, so it looks fairly rumpled, and Brienne purposefully chooses drinks that she knows won’t get her too drunk unless she overindulges. He doesn’t seem to care about that, though, and he laughs more than usual when he’s tipsy, and she doesn’t want to entertain the notion that he really might _like_ her more than he lets on, but she’s not going to bring the subject up when they’re not sober and when she’s not even sure of it.

So she doesn’t, but isn’t it such a sweet notion. If only the first and last time she entertained it (it was Renly Baratheon in middle school and she’d rather not think about how that went) it didn’t end up in a complete disaster, but after all until she acts on it, there’s no harm done.

 

VII. [Blue.]

 

Three days later, she comes in with her weekly load of dirty underwear. She has just started the cycle when Jaime comes in as well – he’s definitely going for the colors laundry. He even bought the dye-trapping sheets.

She asks him how class went and he’s answering when she notices that in the middle of his stuff there’s a sky-blue button-up shirt that is definitely cut for a woman. Not a small one, by the looks of it, but it has laced hems with flowers embroidered, and she can see that it’s cut with the idea that someone with a cleavage might want to wear it. It’s – well, the only word she can find for it is… cute, pretty much.

There goes Stark’s son’s theory, Brienne figures. If Jaime’s washing clothes that aren’t his and look like they might belong to a woman, he’s definitely not interested.

Also, he looks fairly chipper, so it means he must have been a good time.

“I see this semester is treating you well,” Brienne says as she sits down on the chair in front of the washing machine.

“Hey, I only have two classes and I had tougher ones during my bachelor’s, of course it’s treating me well.”

“No, I meant you look – happy?”

“Oh, well, maybe, but it’s just that a few days ago I kind of decided it was time to stop stalling about one certain thing.”

“Stalling?”

“Yeah, well, there was something I had been on the fence about for a while, but now I’m not anymore.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“We’ll see, but not being on the fence feels good already.”

Brienne is about to ask if it has anything to do with the owner of the blue shirt, but she keeps her mouth shut – it’s not her business and she’ll know when it’s time, she figures.

“Good for you then.” She tries to sound supportive rather than resigned. “I guess you’ll share at some point?”

“Sooner than you think,” he says, and then he doesn’t add anything else. Of course he wouldn’t.

He’s also still smirking, which should probably be worrying her, but she won’t point that out. Instead she shoves at him her notes about the last ten years of Charlemagne’s reign and asks him to quiz her.

“You really couldn’t find any class that is somewhat more intellectually stimulating?”

“Says the one who thinks that the Komnenian restoration is _intellectually stimulating_ ,” she retorts.

“As if we aren’t studying for the same major, wench. Also yes, of course the Komnenian restoration is infinitely more interesting. Never mind that you will end up having to deal with it the moment you touch the Crusades, and I’ll laugh in your face when you ask me for _my_ notes.”

“In your dreams.” She punches him in the side (even if she knows that he’s right about that – she will probably end up asking him for his notes, on the inevitable day when she has to touch Byzantine history again), he pretends to be seriously hurt and then he starts quizzing her for real, and before concentrating on that, she fleetingly thinks that as long as this doesn’t change, it doesn’t really matter whoever owns that shirt.

His clothes are done before hers – he cheerfully retrieves them and dumps them in the dryer, and then she does the same not long later when her own cycle is done. They’re done more or less at the same time, and she’s folding everything neatly when he comes up behind her and taps her shoulder.

“Yes?” She asks, and then he sees that – he only has the blue shirt in his left hand, and it’s not folded neatly at all.

“I saw you looking at this before,” he says. “I guess you were wondering where it came from?”

“Jaime, you can get laid with whomever you want? I mean, shouldn’t you bring it to whoever it belongs to?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, though.”

“… What?”

“Case is, I saw that a few days ago while I was walking around a flea market, I thought it would look fairly nice on you and it would get Margaery off your case as far as _wearing nice things_ goes –”

“How do you know she’s on my case about it?”

“I actually hear you two talking whenever I drop by your room before knocking on your door? However, it was used and I figured I wouldn’t hand it over when it was covered in dust and smelling of moth. I like to think I have more class than that. _But_ , it makes me happy that you jumped to conclusions. Because, well, you said it must have belonged to someone who _got me laid_ , which, frankly, is the way I would like this situation to develop. Eventually, of course. And if you’re amenable.”

There are a lot of things she could say right now.

Never mind that she might have spent a fair amount of time at least until she was fourteen or so dreaming about the moment when someone she liked would actually tell her something along those lines and mean them, which means that she should have had an answer ready. Or at least, she should have been able to come up with a decent answer to it.

And instead, what comes out of her mouth is, “Wait, so that freshman was _right_?”

Jaime looks completely taken aback at that. “That… freshman?”

“Er. This guy who also comes here to wash his clothes, a few days ago he walks up to me and tells me that we’re both hopelessly pining for each other and that it was really masochist if you asked him. Or something along those lines. But I had thought he was seeing things…?”

And then Jaime shakes his head and puts a hand on her shoulder – he sits back down again and she goes with, which means that she doesn’t have those couple centimeters on him now.

“Maybe your _freshman_ was more observant than you gave him credit for. So, are you going to wear this or not?”

“What, now?”

Jaime glances around. “The shop is empty, the owner’s nephew is in the bathroom and it can’t take you long. And there’s a bathroom over there, if you don’t feel like giving people a show.”

Brienne wants to ask him if he’s really serious, but a moment later the shirt is in her hands and –

She shakes her head and goes to the bathroom without looking back. She takes off her sweater and plain white shirt underneath, good thing that they keep the heating high in here or she’d be freezing, and she puts on the blue shirt.

For some miracle, it actually fits her, even considering that she has wide shoulders and almost no cleavage, and – well. Yes. It’s… cute, there’s no other word for it, and for some reason she doesn’t look ridiculous in it at all. She doesn’t think she’s ever owned anything of the kind if you don’t count the white dress she bought with Margaery, and that one was just, a plain white dress without the fancy hems or anything of the kind.

She swallows and walks out of the bathroom and towards the machines, where Jaime is standing and looking at her appreciatively.

“Good, I still have eye,” he says, sounding fairly satisfied. “I _did_ say blue was your color.”

“You might have,” she admits, and never mind if her voice is slightly wavering.

“Okay then, I guess that since you haven’t thrown this back in my face, we might both have been idiots about this.”

“So maybe we should do something about it?” She asks, and then he walks in front of her, so close they could kiss if one of them just moved a bit forward –

“I like it when you show initiative,” he replies, and then he’s putting a hand behind her neck and kissing her in front of the washing machines, and for a moment she doesn’t know where to put her hands or what to do _at all_ , because it’s not as if she’s kissed anyone beyond games of spin the bottle in high school, the few times she had the occasion. But then she moves a hand on his back and one on the side of his head, and she parts her lips when he presses just a tiny bit more and pushes his tongue in – at that point she sighs into his mouth, and when his arm wraps around her waist and he tugs her forward she shivers at once, and it’s not because she’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt when it’s winter and the temperature outside is probably inching below zero.

When he leans back, his face looks like satisfaction made flesh. For about a moment, when he glances at the laundry machine at his side.

“Look at it,” he says, “I had it figured out and I didn’t even think that maybe I could have picked a nicer place to put a move on you.”

He sounds like he’s halfway between amused and mortified, and Brienne has to laugh at that, and she doesn’t think she’s laughed this openly in a damned long time.

“Well,” she says, “all things considered, I think it was more appropriate than anywhere else could have been.”

“Oh, really? Please don’t tell me that you’re going to tell Margaery that this is our special place now or something equally corny, because I like to think I have better taste than that.”

“I’m not _twelve_ , Lannister. I don’t think anyone entertains that kind of notion after then.”

“Good. Does that mean we can go on until someone comes in and they kick us out or do you want to go kick your roommate out? I’m flexible.”

“How about both?” She asks, trying not to pay attention to how much her heartbeat has sped up in the last five minutes.

“I think I can definitely do both,” Jaime says, and he’s grinning all over again as he drags her down to the seats and kisses her all over again.

Then the owner’s nephew comes in and tells them that it’s nice that they finally figured their shit out but they might bring it somewhere private, and that’s when she realizes that the noise she had heard a moment ago was the sound of all of their laundry having crashed on the ground, since one of them has somehow pushed the basins off the machines without realizing it while they were moving back towards the seats.

So it means that they don’t end up sending Margaery out of her room until they have washed everything anew, because the floor is hardly the cleanest part of this establishment, but when he takes her right hand with his left as they sit back down to wait the cycles out, she decides she doesn’t mind that at all.

 

End.


End file.
